One Ten Inch Scroll
by RosieR
Summary: Neville brews a potion. Warnings: non-con, slash, mpreg.
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer:

This is all based on Rowling's Harry Potter novels. Anything recognisably belonging to the Harry Potter universe therefore belongs to her. This story has been written for my own amusement and I am making no profit from this. 

Chapter One

I've never been all that good at anything, except herbology. And even there I'm not outstanding, just, I do okay. So I was fairly content when Gran got me a job over the summer between sixth year and seventh year working in the Gorgonzola Archives as an apprentice archivist. I would have liked it better if I could have worked in a garden or orchard or even with Professor Sprout in her scary greenhouses, but the Archives weren't so bad. There were a heap of other apprentices, because someone'd cracked the magical seal on the lower levels and for the first time in thousands of years there was access to what lay inside. Really, it was just a huge mess. There was no sort of organisation, just rooms and corridors and stairwells crammed full of scrolls and books in jumbled heaps. My job, as an apprentice archivist, was to pick a room and sort its content into piles relating to subject matter. If a scroll or book appeared to be too powerful or dangerous for me to decipher it went in the Master archivist's pile. 

I'd chosen a room four levels down and a good ten minutes trudge to the east. It was hard enough trying to cast the translating spell on weird scratchy handwriting without being interrupted by shrieks of Eureka every time something unusual was discovered. 

I'd done quite a bit of my room when I came across a herbology scroll! What's more, it was one that had a potion recipe that enhanced the herbologist's ability! Fascinated, I copied it down very carefully. I know I'm hopeless at potions, but if I could make this one It'd be worth all that nerve-wracking measuring and counting and timing and stirring and the waiting Plus, Professor Snape was safely back in Hogwarts, so I wouldn't have to worry about _him_ glaring at me. 

Just to be sure, I checked a dozen times that I'd copied each and every instruction and ingredient correctly. Some of these ingredients looked very expensive and rare, but our family vault was brimming with Galleons and I didn't think mother and father would grudge me the chance to better myself! I made up my mind to start work on the potion as soon as possible. That night I lay in bed thinking about The Potion. 

__

Wheresoever the barren ground lies, the seed that is sown will flourish, the unfertile vessel will be fruitful, the outcome prolific, yeilding with every planting in season... 

It sounded wonderful.

(((((((())))))))

I had frequent recourse to _Most Potent Potions_ over the summer as I carefully prepared and brewed The Potion. The thought occurred to me that if I had concentrated as hard in my lessons I would probably have lost far fewer cauldrons in Potions, and far fewer House Points. Without Professor Snape's frightening presence or the Slytherins' nasty little practical jokes, or Ron and Harry's brave but really quite immature pranks, or Hermione's constant but brain-numbingly helpful murmurs, I was unrushed and unworried. Gran asked me what I was doing in my spare time when I told her I'd rather not go shopping with her in the North African bazaars, and she was quite content when I told her I was trying to improve my potions skills. I added the last ingredient, powdered eyelashes of an Iranian Rockcruncher, at midnight on a full moon, carefully sprinkling the powder in a counter-clockwise spiral and clearly pronouncing the long stream of Latin I'd been practicing for weeks. It was still incomprehensible to me, because I was no good at foreign languages. I just memorise every spell as it comes up in class, and sometimes, you know, I forget the words. Well, a lot of the time. Not this time, though! 

I covered the cauldron, turned down the flame and locked the attic door. It had to brew all by itself for another month. I'd just have time to drink it before it was time to head back to Hogwarts for sixth year. I was almost looking forward to school; brewing this potion had taught me that I _could_ do it. Snape wouldn't be so scary, with any luck. 

The Archiving job hadn't been too bad either, I'd done six rooms over the past two months, which was an average result according to what my fellow apprentices told me. The third and last month passed very quickly, tagging along with Gran to dinner parties and expeditions during the evenings, and working in the Gorgonzola Archives during the day. My seventeenth birthday passed and then the full moon rose and I carefully removed the cauldron lid. 

The Potion had condensed into a thick, silvery liquid. I waited until it was precisely midnight, then raised the cauldron and tipped the liquid down my throat, swallowing and swallowing until it was all gone bar for a scant trickle, which I scooped out with a finger. It tasted well, awful. And I'd drunk so much that my stomach felt bloated and strange, and I sat down on the attic floor wondering where my strength had gone. 

(((((((())))))))

I must say, sometimes my own stupidity comes as quite a shock. 

It was only when the terrible pain in my abdomen grew to be unbearable that it occurred to me that maybe this potion wasn't meant to be drunk at all. Or maybe the scroll had been put in a room for experiments that went wrong. Or I could have done something wrong, for all my care, and brewed a deadly poison. Or maybe it would have been a prudent idea to have at least told my Gran what I was doing, rather than drinking the potion when she was away on a visit? **_Help_**, my last thought was, **_I need a mediwizard!_**

(((((((())))))))

I woke up to find that I'd fouled my clothes, urine and shit all over me. And vomit. But I was alive, if feeling a bit sore in the tummy, and bitterly disappointed that I'd wasted my wonderful potion. If I'd been wiser I would have bottled some and asked an apothecary to analyse it, not drunk it all. Still, nobody'd ever accused me of having a surplus of brains. Professor Snape's voice echoed in my memory **_You fool, Longbottom! You are the poorest excuse for a wizard I have encountered in all my years of teaching Potions_**

It took me a while to remember the cleaning charms and even then I went for a swim in the ocean before I felt clean again. I'd just enough time to pack up all my stuff and Gran's before she drove up in a taxi, calling for me to hurry or we'd miss the plane. I was still frightened from what I'd done – imagine if I'd only just now woken, all covered with filth? Gran would have sent me to St. Mungo's. Gran commented that I looked a little pale, but I told her I hadn't slept well, and she didn't mention it again. She asked me if I'd liked my archivist job, and I said it was okay, but I didn't know if that was what I wanted to end up doing after Hogwarts. 

"Neville, you have to work to your talents," she sighed. 

Well, that didn't leave me with very much.

(((((((())))))))


	2. Chapter Two

Warning: this chapter contains a non-con scene.

Chapter Two

"When are you going to learn to apparate, Neville?" 

"Next term. Professor Flitwick's going to be teaching us." 

Oh. It was a rhetorical question.

Gran marched into the airport and joined the check-in queue while I struggled to pile our luggage onto the trolley. I wished magic carpets hadn't been banned, it would have made long distance travelling so much more comfortable for all the non apparating wizarding folk. I mean, after that bad experience with the broomstick in my first year, there was no way I was going to try **_flying_** to Africa and back. Not even in easy stages like Gran had suggested. 

I sat as still as I could next to Gran, wishing that we hadn't had to pack our wands in the luggage. What if the plane crashed? How, for Merlin's sake, was a person supposed to do a levitation charm without a wand? My stomach burned, and I was glad of the packet of Biledious Chuckchunk's Calming Cookies that Gran handed me when we were airborne. 

"Looking a bit queasy there, Neville," she remarked thinly.

I crammed a Calming Cookie in my mouth and just nodded. Two packets later and we were at Heathrow, waiting miserably for our luggage. Well, I was miserable, and Gran was her usual self. 

"Blithering idiots! Useless Muggles – if ever I saw such gross negligence..." I tuned her out with the ease of long practice, and made a dash for the nearest bathroom.

(((((((())))))))

Gran gave me one of her slightly whiskery kisses and put me straight on a train at Heathrow, headed for Kings Cross. 

Harry, Hermione and Ron were exactly the same as usual. Only Hermione and Ron had remembered my birthday. I'd given Harry a present for his birthday and one for Christmas every year, but he never reciprocated. I don't think it ever occurred to him. Ron gave me a box of chocolate frogs, and Hermione a pair of gloves made out of Warmer Wool. I thanked them but they were too busy catching up on their own news to pay attention to me. Ginny Weasley smirked at me invitingly, but there was something about her that I found repellent so I just nodded and smiled and slipped out of that compartment. I found a seat near Dean and Seamus and tried to get some sleep. My belly still ached. 

It was torture to sit through the Sorting Ceremony, and I left dinner early, unable to eat more than a few mouthfuls of the potato salad before nausea surged. I lay in my bed, silencing charms keeping the rest of the dormitory out of earshot, and tried to sleep. I dreamed of a lover, strong hands caressing my lonely body, coaxing responses from my untutored flesh scaring the hell out of me claiming me. I parted my thighs, feeling his heavy weight settle on my back, one strong, elegant hand pinning my wrists, his heavy black hair slapping like licorice strings across my face and neck. An unmistakable voice purring, "Be still"

My eyes snapped open. 

I honestly thought I was going to die having a Muggle heart attack, the way my heart was racing. Merlin, I'd been having an erotic dream about Professor Snape! I didn't know whether to laugh hysterically, start screaming in terror, or weep. So I compromised and hyperventilated for a while. 

I'd never had erotic thoughts about Professor Snape before. Other males, yes, it was no secret that I was a little more homosexual than bisexual. But never Professor Snape. He was, I suppose, quite attractive physically. But I'd never been one to look at the outsides of people, and Professor Snape quite frankly frightened the living daylights out of me. 

__

Brave, a part of my mind said. **_Powerful, intelligent, skilled, loyal_**. I countered that quickly; Professor Snape was also cruel, unkind, manipulative and vindictive**. _Damaged. Hurt. Alone. A survivor_**. Hm. Well that didn't mean he was a nice person. And he wasn't. 

I forced myself back to sleep. 

Breakfast was worse than dinner. I upchucked all the five teaspoons of porridge I'd managed to eat, in the privacy of the secondfloor bathroom. It occurred to me to go to Madame Pomfrey, but I was reluctant to do so. What if she discovered that I'd been stupid enough to drink that potion? Besides, the effects would probably wear off soon. 

(((((((())))))))

Everything reminded me of Professor Snape. And in an erotic fashion too, which was embarrassing! Pale things recalled the sheen of his skin, anything soft or gleaming – his hair. A spatter of rain and I remembered the coolness of drying semen on a dungeon-chilled body in my dream. I was grateful for the generous cut of my robes (I'd never grown out of my puppy fat). However, concealing my humiliating near-constant erection did not cause the symptoms to stop. Hermione and Ron were playing with some spilled ink in Advanced Theory of Magic, forming it into animal shapes Professor Binns was filling in for Madame Fenestre so they wouldn't get in trouble. The black ink glittered, looking like some mysterious black stone I'd once seen – Onyx, maybe – or perhaps it was more like Professor Snape's eyes. The way they kind of sparkled evily. Fascinating, almost like a kind of mini basilisk. A tingle went down my spine I wonder what his eyes would look like if he smiled

This could not continue. 

Gran'd always told me I had to face my fears... I found myself knocking at his door when all the school had gone to bed.

(((((((())))))))

"Mr. Longbottom."

I sidled into the room and found myself petrified by the look in his eyes.

Black and mesmerising...

A startled look seemed to flash over his face before a kind of glazed expression set in. His nostrils flared, his nose twitched. And again. 

Was he going to sneeze on me? I braced myself for a deluge of snot.

Instead he leaned down and sniffed, enthusiastically at my neck. He seemed to be trying to breathe in my very skin, pressing his nose into my flesh, long spider-hands grappling with my robe –

"Wha- what are you doing? Professor?" I squeeked, batting ineffectually at his shoulders. He'd got the front of my robe open now and was going at my skin like a pig after truffles, rooting around my armpits, wrenching my clothes open and apart.

Frantic, I grabbed hold of his hair, two big handfuls and hauled his head up – his eyes were glassy, void of intelligence, drool hung from his slack mouth and his nose twitched frantically.

It was too horrible to bear and I felt a whirl of panic, familiar this time, and knew I was going to faint. 

I didn't know what was happening to me when I came to, at first. And then I wished I was unconscious again. For it _hurt_. And Professor Snape was hurting me, rutting like some wild beast, snorting and snuffling. I tried to block it out, pretend it wasn't happening. I had better luck when he'd finished and collapsed exhausted on the floor. Gingerly I eased myself away from him, trying not to whimper and sob too loudly. Didn't want to wake him up, you see.

There was something very wrong with Professor Snape – it was as though he'd been cursed or something. And all that revolting sniffing.

Maybe someone'd got me with a smell hex or something. I'd never heard of a smell hex, but it was the only thing I could think of. 

I hurt so bad I didn't think I could walk, let alone stand. I wondered if the cruiciatus was anything like this. Probably not, because I forced myself to stand, and then I bolted (at a slow stagger) from Professor Snape's office. 

(((((((())))))))


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

I used the scouring charm I'd managed to memorise in Hagrid's class — the one we'd had to learn when a sniggering Ron and Harry fed a handful of Poopadoop Popadums to an unfortunate hippogriff. It had worked to get rid of hippogriff diarrhoea, and I'd found it handy for cleaning up after working with compost and fertilisers in Herbology. It proved effective against Snape slobber and other fluids too. I'd used it a dozen times before I reached the moving staircases and my skin felt as though I'd been plunged into boiling water like a lobster. Poor lobster. Scrabbling away at the pot as the house elves merrily poke it under the roiling surface with a ladle. 

I gibbered a bit at a suit of armour which sidled off nervously. 

Presently I took a long, shuddery breath and set off again. Gryffindor tower wasn't that far away. I'd just have to sneak in

(((((((())))))))

"Paprika."

"Wrong!"

"Nutmeg?"

"Wrong!" Her fat cheeks were creased in a malevolent simper — she'd never liked me since that incident with Sirius Black and my password list

"Cinnamon? Cloves? Cumin? Ginger? Pepper?"

"Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!" She peeped horridly over her fan, as if hiding a yawn.

Normally I would have missed it, but this time I'd counted"It's Pepper', isn't it, you g-ghastly old bag? Pepper!" Pepper, paprika — both got up my nose I smiled horribly as the portrait hole opened, and hobbled inside. 

(((((((())))))))

For once I made it to my bed without Seamus or Dean waking up. Harry'd been made a prefect (after he'd got rid of You Know Who, of course), and it was a relief to have him out of the dorm and not be dragged into whatever middle-of-the-night escapade he and Ron and Hermione needed a lookout for. I'd spent too many nights hiding from Peeves or Filch to miss being included. I crawled under my bed's nice, snuggly covers and wished desperately for a dreamless sleep potion. 

Oh Merlin we had Potions first thing after breakfast

(((((((()))))))))

The rabid hippogriff had caught me in the Forbidden Forest and even now was snuffling me with its wide-open nostrils, dripping strings of drool from its fanged mouth it was going to tear me apart! Rip my limbs off either with those slavering teeth or with those hideous equine-like hooves — I had to get away — I scrabbled for a handhold on the composting forest floor only to find that the pressure of my hand on a lumpy projection wiped away a film of moss and revealed a rotting human head

I tried to scream but no sound came out, I could hardly breathe with the terror that gripped me — I was going to be the next mouldering skull!!!

"Bloody oath, Neville, wake us all up why don't you!"

"Ah — ah — ah —" I panicked and flailed wildly at the apparition which retreated hastily.

Oh.

Dean. Nightmare Awake. 

"D-Dean?"

With exaggerated caution he peered round the bed curtain, "You feeling alright, old chappie my son what what?"

"Just having a bad dream. Why'd you wake me?"

"Why'd _I_ wake _you?_" His big black eyes opened as wide as they could, "There I was having a lovely dream about Fortescue's Strawberry Sundaes and that Ravenclaw fifth year with the cleavage, when you start howling like a banshee. When I figured that since I wasn't dead you couldn't have worked out some kind of banshee animagus form, I thought I'd better wake you up, return the favour, you know." He grinned mercilessly.

I scowled at him. "Next time j-just hit me with a silencing charm." I pulled my bedclothes over my head and tried to think of Fortescue's Strawberry Sundaes

(((((((((())))))))))

"Neville?"

If I ignored Dean, maybe he'd go away.

"Neville, you'll miss breakfast" A thump and my bed rocked — he'd jumped on the end of it. I tugged the bedclothes more firmly over my head.

"Go Away. I'm t-t-trying to sleep!" I said as distinctly as I could, and after a few more irritating bounces he bounced off.

"Righto, but don't blame me if you miss out on the kippers." He then tore around the dorm hooting at the top of his voice, "Everyone be quiet! Neville's trying to sleep! Let's have some hush, gentlemen! Mister O'Reilly, shame on you, can't you comb your hair more quietly? Mister Thomas, let's have less of that racket! Oh wait, that's Me."

A muffled thump, which I identified from years of practice, as Dean's feet being levitated out from under him — one of Seamus's favourite tricks. An outraged howl followed, and they scuffled out of the dorm eventually. 

((((((((()))))))))

I suppose one of the reasons I skipped breakfast was an illogical wish — you know, as Potions is after breakfast, if I don't have breakfast I can put off going to Potions That kind of thing. 

Really, I just wanted to put off ever seeing Professor Snape again. 

I didn't want to think about what had happened — not in detail, anyway. I got all clammy and dizzy and wanting to hide under Gran's cloak just thinking around the edges of what had happened. There was probably some horrible penalty for hexing a professor

Yet another good reason to stay in the dorm. I didn't want to have Professor Dumbledore expel me in front of everyone. Better that I was summoned in private. Gran will be so disappointed!

((((((((()))))))))


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter four

They were all very kind.

Professor Snape was recovering in Saint Mungo's but was expected to remain in padded restraints for several months.

The good news was: I wasn't going to be sent to Azkaban.

The bad news was: I was being expelled from Hogwarts.

The extra bad news was: Gran was coming to fetch me back to Yorkshire.

**********************************

The train journey home was mainly silent, with me thinking over what had happened, and Gran sitting bolt upright and grim thinking up different ways of saying how disappointed she was in me.

_There comes a time when a boy becomes a man. _ Or that's how Professor Dumbledore had put it, blinking sadly over his glasses at me.

It wasn't quite how I would've put it, myself - surely not every boy loses his virginity so disastrously! I'd kept my mouth shut, though, and the whole Hogwarts Board had stared pityingly at me before passing a sentence of expulsion.

Gran wasn't thrilled with Professor Dumbledore either, and as soon as the carriage door had slammed behind us she pursed her lips and fixed me with a gimlet glare. "He could've stood up for you more, Neville! Not but what it's hard to explain why putting a teacher in St Mungo's should merit you staying at Hogwarts. I don't know how I'm going to show my face at the coven until this blows over. Really, Neville! I thought I had raised you better."

I squirmed in shame. It honestly hadn't occurred to me to fetch help for Professor Snape, after my smell-hex had hit him, and the word was that he was now in padded restraints in a private ward. Ron Weasley had slapped me heartily on the back and congratulated me on getting rid of the greasy git, after the magical residue had been traced to my personal signature.

I had realised, of course, that _Ron_ hadn't been expelled for putting Professor Lockheart in St Mungo's - but that was because he'd been protecting Harry Potter. There was nothing heroic in my cowardly behaviour, Professor McGonagal had snapped, herding me through the cheering common room. I had silently agreed, flinching from Hermione's horrified stare.

Was that to be the last I saw of my classmates? I didn't know. I stared out at Hogsmeade, and then at fields and villages flickering by. Gran was right, Professor Dumbledore should have said more to back me up – he should've known it was an accident. But really, now I came to think about it, the Headmaster hadn't been quite as friendly to me ever since that day last year when I'd broken his Voldemort figurine. I hadn't even thought he would realise, and had stuck the head back on with Spellotape before hurrying down the tower stairs. There'd been a lot of celebratory fuss that evening with Harry Potter coming in having vanquished the Dark Lord, and when I heard he'd chopped his head off with Gryfindor's Sword, I thought even if Professor Dumbledore did notice he'd be pretty amused.

But no, I'd been summoned to the Headmaster's office, where a twinkle-less Professor Dumbledore had flapped his hands helplessly at the miniature battlefield I'd discovered while trying to complete the mission Hermione had set me of finding Rowena Ravenclaw's Book of Secrets. I'd felt my whole face and neck heat up with embarrassment and had confessed.

Yes, I'd found the battlefield, and thought it looked like fun. I'd picked up the Voldemort and the Harry Potter figurines and enacted parts of that Muggle film "Star Wars" that Seamus was so fond of – last time we'd played it I'd had to be a Wookie. And then I'd played killing the Voldemort figurine and its head had come off, but I'd fixed it and I was very sorry, but nobody really could tell, could they?

He'd looked at me with absolute dislike and I'd never seen the twinkle again in his eye. I suppose the whole set was ruined now.

********************

In the end, of course, Uncle Algie found me a job with the Ministry, in the Department of Unexplained Results (DoUR), in the Muggle Response Unit. As I had been expelled from Hogwarts, I didn't have one of the coveted GAA(H) - Graduate Administrative Assistant (Hogwarts) - positions, but instead was employed as a MoME (Ministry of Magic Employee) Level 1.5. My supervisor, Mrs Leek, informed me on my first day, and weekly thereafter, that I should have been employed as a MoME Level 1 (_"Merlin knows, you're certainly not worth more")_, but inflation in the Goblin money market meant that a Level 1 wage wouldn't keep a wizard in socks, so they'd been forced to advertise the position at a Level 1.5 wage. Privately I thought that it was a good thing that I had plenty of socks already.

I usually responded to Mrs Leek's comments with variants of "Mmmm", with the occasional "Hmmm", which saved actually having to listen to what she was saying, a technique I'd perfected while enduring seventeen years of Longbottom family celebrations.

********************

Life settled into a routine:

5:30am - quick vomit (I hadn't quite got over that potion-induced tummy upset).

5:45am - hike over to the home farm greenhouses and check on my seedlings.

6:30am - quick bath and get dressed in my Muggle disguise (a suit from Henry Poole's, an establishment our family has always patronised for Muggle outfits, briefcase and rolled umbrella).

7am - breakfast with Gran.

7:45am - floo to the Leeds floo nexus.

7:47am - floo to the Sheffield floo interchange.

7:49am - floo to the Epping floo terminus.

7:50am - take the commuter train to Euston Station.

8:10am - purchase Muggle coffee from the stand and carry it carefully up the three steps into the Institute for Historical Musicology's foyer.

8:11am - step through the Muggle-proof turnstile (the one on the left), and take the secure floo down to Basement 5.

8:15am - quick vomit (optional).

8:20am - take my seat (the cubicle furthest from the tea room and toilets), drink my Muggle coffee, which usually tastes strongly of Styrofoam by this time, and contemplate the stacks of impatiently fluttering memos in my in-tray.

8:30am - Mrs Leek arrives and relates intimate details of the ongoing war she and Mr Leek are waging against their neighbours.

9:30am - Mrs Leek pops out to obtain her own Muggle coffee, and I read some memos and draft some responses to the most urgent. These go into Mrs Leek's in-tray.

12pm - lunch either in the staff cafeteria or in Muggle London.

1pm - I do some filing (quite dangerous, on account of the new filing system).

3pm - Mrs Leek puts my draft responses into my in-tray, covered in spidery annotations and comments that reflect bitterly on my employment.

3:30pm - Madame Rosalba, the head of our Unit, emerges from her office and stalks among our cubicles for five minutes of steely-eyed silence, before disappearing back into the office. This regular appearance, Mrs Leek tells me, is the result of a managerial course Madame Rosalba attended, and is supposed to induce a team atmosphere and boost morale.

4pm - make Mrs Leek's changes to the draft responses and put them back into her in-tray.

5pm - Join the general stampede out of the office and head home.

Sometimes my day was enlivened by particularly unusual Unexplained Results reported to the British Medicines and Healthcare Products Regulatory Agency by puzzled Muggles, and filtered through to DoUR by the Muggle Liaison Officer (MLO). Mostly, though, the highlights came from discovering the occasional Iced VoVo in the selection of biscuits in the tea room.

Strangely, I'd lost some weight, though my paunch appeared to have increased. Mrs Leek said that I was simply exhibiting the classic physique of the civil servant and recommended I abstain from the Iced VoVos.


	5. Chapter Five

Apparently the story's got a bit confusing - so, a synopsis of the plot so far:

- Neville brews his amazing herbology-improving potion, while on summer break between 6th and 7th year.

- Neville returns to Hogwarts, and has an unpleasant encounter with Professor Snape, resulting in Professor Snape's confinement in St Mungo's, and Neville's expulsion from Hogwarts.

- Neville, as all his friends are still in school, and he has limited financial resources of his own and few useful skills, obtains employment with the Ministry of Magic on the bottom rung.

- Neville has begun to notice some changes to his physique, but attributes these to the natural consequences of sitting at a desk for eight hours a day.

Chapter 5

One of the marginally more exciting tasks allocated to me by Mrs Leek was the daily retrieval of a lot of secured files from the archives and then delivering them upstairs to the DoUR Investigation Branch.

By far the most intimidating thing about working for the Ministry was the new file retrieval system. Apparently it was faster, more accurate and wildly more expensive to install than the old file retrieval system. As the most junior member of the team, Mrs Leek smirkingly informed me that it was my job to descend to the lower depths of the Ministry each afternoon to obtain the numerous files needed from the Demon of Searches (or DOS).

Training was provided, of course.

(((((((())))))))

"Just stand here, Neville", Mrs Leek had instructed in a suspiciously hearty tone of voice, "and observe the automated circle of invocation. You have thirty seconds from entering the Chamber of Records before it appears. Remember that you need to have the correct cadence at the front of your mouth, to summon the appropriate imp. Otherwise you end up with the default imp, which is very difficult to deal with. Oh, here we go."

A blinding ring of fire erupted from the floor, slightly to our left, and Mrs Leek chanted a long, surely too long, incantation. A smell like Dean's old socks filled the dark cavern, and the shadowy form of a lower order imp materialised within the flames.

YOU HAVE SUMMONED A DEMON OF SEARCHES - YOU HOLD ME IN YOUR POWER WITHIN THIS CIRCLE - WHAT IS YOUR DESIRE, O MISTRESS?

"Now Neville, pay attention. You must come prepared with the file listing number and the latest history of searches - the five latest, remember - and don't forget that files created after 1999 are also listed by colour code: Purple for Very Important, through to Scummy Grey for Not Worth Looking At Again. I'll give you a full list when we're back in the office."

WHAT IS YOUR DESIRE, O MISTRESS?

"And, Neville, you can only let the demon request the file details three times, or it may refuse the request entirely, and then we'll have to put in a request to Demonology to re cast the circle. Our Unit has a limited budget for that sort of thing. Pay attention, now." She rattled off a string of file details, waited until the file appeared on an obsidian altar, and then barked out a request for the next. And the next. And the next

I'd given up trying to take notes in the flickering light of the circle of invocation, and instead was gawping at what I could see of the immense tiers of files, extending as far as I could perceive in the dim cavern.

"and there you have it, Neville. Do you need me to demonstrate again?"

I had the feeling that I'd missed something important, but Mrs Leek had her eyebrows at an alarming angle, and I quickly responded, "Oh no, I think that's pretty clear."

(((((((())))))))

It was pretty clear, over the following weeks, that I would have failed Demonology, had it been offered at Hogwarts. Luckily, I discovered a simple way to get around the problem of having absolutely no talent, skill, or ability.

It'd been a bit of a fluke, actually, but I was proud of my inventiveness.

Just after lunch, I'd scoop up the file request memos from my in tray, and floo down to the Cavern of Records, and begin _accio_-ing whatever it was that was needed. When the ring of fire appeared, I'd ignore it, until the default demon appeared. The first time this had happened I'd nearly had a heart attack - it was fully three metres tall, with fangs, and burning eyes, and a great big well, you'd have no problems identifying it as a _male _demon.

YOU HAVE SUMMONED A DEMON OF SEARCHES - YOU HOLD ME IN YOUR POWER WITHIN THIS CIRCLE - WHAT IS YOUR DESIRE, O MASTER?

The demon's voice rattled the rock below my feet, and the smell of the vapour suppurating from its form made my eyes water.

"Er, hello," I carolled. "Um, I'm fine, actually. No desires, everything's peachy."

The ring of fire blazed hotter, and the demon increased in size dramatically, seeming to loom over me, with a certain disproportionally large part of its anatomy at eye height.

YOU HAVE SUMMONED A DEMON OF SEARCHES - YOU HOLD ME IN YOUR POWER WITHIN THIS CIRCLE - WHAT IS YOUR DESIRE, O MASTER?

To my alarm, the circle of invocation seemed to be losing power at one edge, allowing the demon to lean further into my personal space.

Merlin! I was going to be buggered by a filing demon! Would it be worse than Snape?

Necessity being the whotsit of invention, my brain found new depths of resourcefulness. "Um, here! Have this instead!" And I chucked the Snickers bar that I'd been planning on eating in the loo, through the ring of flames, directly towards the demon's Uh oh.

A clawed hand caught it. The burning eyes radiated puzzlement. The smell of melting plastic wrapper filled the air.

"It's probably melted, by now," I burbled, "just tear open one end, andsuck out what's inside."

While it was distracted by muggle chocolate, I took the opportunity to finish _accio_-ing my files, and scuttled out of the Cavern.

Over the next week or so, I got it down to a fine art. _Accio, accio, accio, _ring of fire, chuck chocolate, more _accio_, see you later. If I had to return a file, that cost me another chocolate bar, I found, but also that was pretty easy, I just drop-kicked it over the edge of the chasm.

Mrs Leek commended me on the accuracy of my file retrieval skills, and I resolved never to let her in on my technique.

(((((((())))))))

There. That last batch of screaming snapweed seeds had germinated with a 60 percent success rate, more than double the national average. I squatted awkwardly and eyed the delicate, pulsating fronds with justified pride - all that effort and expense of The Potion was beginning to pay off, it was clear. Once I'd built up a bit of savings at the Ministry, formed some connections, lived the Snape assault down, it would be time for me to look around for a job that suited my hard-won talent (still, alas, "talent" in the singular). I figured this would take at least a decade.

My back twinged and I got to my feet, which hurt, and lumbered out of the greenhouse. These last couple of months I had gained back all the weight I'd lost, plus extra. I put it down to the unfortunate proximity of a Muggle kiosk called "the Little Chef" to both my commuter train station, and the DoUR offices.

"Eh lad," Gran eyed me disapprovingly over her porridge, "That Muggle costume's too tight over your arse."

"Mmm". I tucked into a soft-boiled egg, making a mental note to stop by Saville Row in my lunch break today.

"I'm hosting the coven tonight - Dolorus Hollyhead's going to give us a talk on a new way of vanquishing your domestic vampire - says she got plenty of practice in the War with You Know Who, and took it up professional after."

Oh Merlin, the coven tonight. Maybe I could persuade Mrs Leek to let me stay late at the office. Maybe I could have a freak floo accident and end up in Honolulu. The stray thought actually sounded attractive to me, and for a blissful minute I imagined myself lolling like a whale in the shallow tropical waters, a handsome young man massaging my feet, another bringing me something alcoholic and colourful to drink. I imagined those firm, muscular hands sliding up my calves, massaging my beefy thighs, slipping boldly up to cup my balls - Merlin!

Mrs Leek in the bath. Professor McGonnagal eating pickled herring. Ron's mum knitting - Ron's mum's knitting. Ah, that did it. Perhaps I should let Harry Potter know that his prized Weasley jumpers acted as a natural anti-aphrodesiac, it would explain why he wasn't able to get close to any girl other than Ginny Weasley, who must be immune from early exposure.

My eyes must have glazed over, because I was taken by surprise by a sleek brown owl delivering an ominously red and smoking envelope onto my second soft-boiled egg and toast.

"Neville, is that a howler, I see? From a Ministry owl?" Gran's suddenly cool tone whipped across the table. "What have you done, boy?"

"Whatever it is, it wasn't me, Gran!"

But it was.

Madame Rosalba's frigid voice filled the breakfast parlour with damning phrases.

**" Mr Longbottom, I am formally suspending you from duty for the foreseeable future. You may apply for a review of this decree in six month's time, however, an offense of this magnitude will not be considered lightly. Corrupting a filing demon is not a laughing matter. We have had to call in experts from Demonology, and the expense has been high. Many attempts to re cast the circle of invocation have failed. You may expect a consultant to contact you for details of your irresponsible, incomprehensible behaviour. If - **_**if**_** - a solution can be found, than that may be taken into account in a review of your case."**

Ah.


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

_Dear Neville,_

_I was going to write to you for tips on working in the Ministry, as I have been provisionally accepted to the GAA(H) program starting in June (pending my NEWTs results of course). _

_However, Ron's dad has let Ron (and me) know that you have been suspended from the Ministry for some gross dereliction of duty! _

_Neville, I am really very disappointed and feel that your behaviour may reflect poorly on Hogwarts, and in particular the GAA(H) intake from your peer group. During your disciplinary hearing I trust that you will not take the opportunity to "pay Hogwarts back" for expelling you earlier this year. _

_I hope you are well and hope you had a pleasant Imbolc celebration last week. _

_Yours sincerely,_

_Hermione Granger_

To my surprise, this time I was able to do a wandless incineration! Hermione's missive burned cheerfully and soon was a dark splodge of ash on the battered marquetry table.

(((((((())))))))

Imbolc had beentrying. Despite my disgrace, Gran had insisted that I accompany her and Uncle Algie to the festival at Ghoulgrave. I hated going to Ghoulgrave for any reason - mostly because Uncle Algie and most of the Coven lived there, preferring its proximity to the Arbor Low standing stones and the convergence of two ley lines to the hustle and bustle of Hogsmeade.

Aggie Glimmergrin and her daughter Eadwynn, being the only witches in Ghoulgrave under the age of fifty, had made the straw simulcrum of Brigid, goddess of hearth and home. With a poke to my back, Gran had forced me into the Glimmergrin house to pay my respects to the doll.

Like all the other local unmarried men I'd bowed and then stood around making awkward conversation about lambing, while the Glimmergrins passed round scones. I'd found my eyes shifting to the generously-proportioned doll, following the intricate runic patterns of the woven straw over the figure's burgeoning belly, and feeling a warm tingling spreading through my abdomen and nipples. Merlin - surely I wasn't getting turned on by a home-made fertility symbol?

I'd welcomed the hiss and bang of the fireworks that signaled the lighting of the bonfires, and joined the general stampede out of the Glimmergrin house - only to stand around for hours in the freezing February drizzle while what seemed like thousands of sleepy sheep, cattle and poultry wended their way between stands of bonfires. Dutifully I joined in the casting of general purpose healing charms as the animals filed past me, while various members of the Coven freely discussed my finally being of some use and my disastrous Ministry career and criticized my swish and flick technique.

Worse, when I'd come down to breakfast the next morning, Gran had looked at me with the most peculiar expression, almost as though she was seeing me for the first time. "Neville," she'd said in a hollow voice, "I read the runes this morning in my grate."

I'd shrugged and helped myself to more bacon - those scones the Glimmergrins had made were sitting heavily in my gut. Gran had always inspected the ashes in her kitchen grate the morning after the Imbolc celebrations, for signs of the season's prosperity. Lavender and Parvati would probably be just like Gran when they got older.

With a crash Gran's shaking hand fumbled her teacup and saucer, upsetting dark strong tea over the table. I'd stood to help her but she'd been transfixed by her teacup, the shock radiating off her like a cloak of eckletricity. "Here too in the leaves." She'd dipped one bony finger into the spilled tea and traced a rune onto the tablecloth. "Uruz. **_Death._** Eh, Neville laddie, this season will be my last."

I'd thought it meant "you will get more cows". Then again, I'd failed Ancient Runes last year.

"Maybe it means the big oak will be struck by lightning, or that our best hen will be taken by a fox, or -" I was struggling now, "Maybe it's me that will die. Those divination things are always unclear."

Gran cheered up at the thought of my imminent death and patted my hand, settling back in her high-backed chair with a grim smile. "You're a good boy, Neville. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have Elsbeth cast the bones for me and see if we can narrow down the meaning of this omen."

The Coven had practically moved in that morning, and I'd been reduced to hiding in my bedroom and sneaking out the back stairs to get to the greenhouses.

(((((((())))))))

I lay on my bed, feeding mice to the aspidistra.

It was probably going to be me who died this Spring. There was definitely something wrong with me, it was like I had to piss every ten minutes or so. I bet The Potion had ruined my kidneys or bladder or some other vital bit of me.

As I believe I've said earlier, sometimes my own stupidity is astonishing.

Of course! I could present some of my abundant urine to St Mungo's and ask for a diagnosis anonymously! I had an excellent excuse to get there, too!

(((((((())))))))

"Gran! Gran," I dashed into the front parlour, swiped some floo powder from the battered tin, "I'm going to visit Mum and Dad, shall I give them your love?"

Six elderly witches glared at me irritably from their observation of several newts in a large aquarium Gladys Blight had brought over as an innovative form of ophiomancy (none of the Coven was keen on snakes).

"See the way that one is wriggling its tail, Elspeth I wager that looks like the rune Inguz - Oh yes, yes Neville, go on."

"St Mungo's!" I stepped into the green flames, holding my breath with anticipation (and against the soot, of course).


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

_**St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries**_

I poked my head into the Spell Damage consultation room where a pleasant middle-aged witch in Healer's robes looked up from her desk. "And who might you be, dearie?"

"Dean Thomas," I lied bravely, sidling in and slumping onto the hard wooden chair. "I think there's something wrong with me. Um, I've put on a lot of weight? and I've been feeling really unwell and tired, and lately I have to uh, urinate, a lot?"

I met the Healer's eyes nervously - what was wrong with me? Was it incurable?

She blinked, plucked her wand out of her apron and pointed it at my stomach with a quick swish and flick. Her lips pursed as she interpreted the resultant fountain of sparkles and rose petals that swirled around me like a pleasant whirlwind. With another flick, she dispersed them.

"Well, young lady," the Healer said in a practiced "soothing" tone, "There's no need for alarm or for such subterfuge, but then, I suppose you haven't yet told your folks."

"Y-young _lady?"_ I blurted. And told Gran what? About The Potion? No way!

"I suppose your parents are very traditional, er _**'Dean'**_, so you think you need to keep your pregnancy a secret. But I know when I'm speaking to a young woman entering motherhood. Good glamour, by the way, if I wasn't a practicing midwife I might have been fooled."

She smirked professionally and twirled her wand. _Pregnant? She must be nuts._

"Most parents, in my experience, are only too happy to receive a grandchild into the family, so if I were you, _**'Dean'**_, I wouldn't be so anxious. It's not good for the baby if you worry. And about your baby, you're about half way and all looks healthy from the scan -"

I didn't stop to listen to more of this nonsense. She must be a dangerous lunatic escaped from the locked ward on the sixth floor. I picked up speed as I heard her voice and clattering footsteps, "Drat the girl! Come back Dean, we haven't finished your check-up!"

I shot around corners, clattered down the short staircase to the foyer and barreled through a group of suspiciously oozing fluorescent green individuals. Floo powder in hand, I had a moment of panic - I can't go home, she'd be able to trace me - "Diagon Alley!"

(((((((())))))))

This time of year Diagon Alley was cold and damp, and I headed straight for Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour and the warmth of his upstairs terrace. I had some difficulty in placing my order with Mr Fortescue as he seemed to think I was jesting when I asked for a licorice and onion sundae!

Relaxing with my tasty treat in the balmy tropical atmosphere upstairs, I found my mind turning to my strange experience at St Mungo's.

_**What if…? **_

_**No. **_

_**That was impossible.**_

_**But…**_

The words on the ancient scroll that I'd copied The Potion from drifted into my consciousness - memorised from weeks of meticulous potion brewing.

(((((((())))))))

… _Wheresoever the barren ground lies, the seed that is sown will flourish, the unfertile vessel will be fruitful, the outcome prolific, yielding with every planting in season... _

The side effects from my ingestion of The Potion had contributed to my inadvertent loss of virginity on the dungeon floor… I didn't want to think about that.

(((((((())))))))

My logical brain ticked on mercilessly.

_**Suppose Snape's semen is "the seed"… **_

_**My ingestion of The Potion.**_

_**My unpleasant encounter with Snape.**_

_**My unusually persistent digestive problems.**_

_**My "bureaucratic" weight-gain.**_

_**The Healer's diagnosis.**_

Oh Merlin! I probably wasn't supposed to _drink_ The Potion, I probably just had to dilute it in a plant mister or something. Or soak the seeds in it before planting, maybe.

I whimpered with the inevitable conclusion: The Potion had caused Professor Snape's "seed" to implant in the natural fertiliser contained in my gut! And now there was a half human - half plant CREATURE growing in my abdomen!

It seemed impossible. Plants require photosynthesis for growth and there was no light source in my belly. What … what kind of a plant grows _in_ a person? Some kind of photosensitive fungus?

I rolled to the side of my sun lounger, heaving up my licorice and onion sundae all over Mr Fortescue's terracotta tiling.

There was no way I was going to St Mungo's with this. They'd probably lock me in a ward for experiments that went wrong and never, ever let me out.

Oh Merlin. I was incubating a half-human/half-photosensitive fungus.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

I stumbled down Diagon Alley, herbology precepts running through my mind.

_**It must be a fungus. Mushrooms are the only plants that reproduce sexually underground…**_

_**But if it's a fungus, it could have spores throughout my gut…**_

_**There are four types of gut fungi - Candida, Saccaromyces, Aspergillus and Penicillium. Does it matter whether the thing is lumpy and white or lumpy and grey?**_

_**Should I stay out of the sun? **_

_**And, on the off-chance that both it and I survive the "birth", what would it eat?**_

_**And - how was it supposed to come OUT? Would it erupt from my orifices in a flurry of fleshy toadstools? **_

_**Or, would it remain INSIDE, my abdomen simply expanding until I popped?**_

I felt my stomach roil again, and turned to face a shop window, pretending to examine the wares while I tried to calm down.

I took a deep breath and let it out in hitching puffs.

_**What would Harry do?**_

Oh I knew. He'd tell Hermione and she'd look it up in the library and freak out, and then they'd tell Professor Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey and use some ancient rite or such to fix him.

Well, I wasn't going to go whining about my latest ronking disaster to my ex-teachers.

_**Man up, laddie,**_ I told myself firmly. And I took myself into the Leaky Cauldron for a bit of what Gran would've called "something to steady my nerves".

(((((((())))))))

Fire whiskey is revolting.

(((((((())))))))

Butterbrew tastes of old socks.

(((((((())))))))

Tom's cherry schnaps that he brews out the back is rather nice.

(((((((())))))))

His parsnip wine is the best!

(((((((())))))))

Rather later than I'd planned, I stepped out into the refreshing chill of Diagon Alley and observed the shopkeepers lighting the lamps against the gathering dark. Graceful swish and flicks, and little dancing flames came to roost in glass lanterns or wall-mounted braziers.

Oh, the wizarding world is a marvelous place!

I belched contentedly and steadied myself on a handy wall. Maybe I'd had a little much to drink - but never say the Longbottoms can't hold their ale!

The Alley seemed a little bendier than usual, but I genially made my way along it, beaming at all the lovely people. I was a MAN and in CHARGE of my (probably very short) life! Why shouldn't I enjoy myself while I had the opportunity?

(((((((())))))))

It was full dark by the time that I strolled into Ollivander's, munching on a mysterious hot pasty some witch had been selling from a cart and with my pockets full of shrunken stuff I'd charged to the Longbottom vault.

Gran had insisted that I use my dad's old wand as a sacred trust, and given that I only had a few months to live, she'd deplore the waste of a new one on me.

But I'd always (secretly) really, really wanted a wand of my own, and great hypogriff bollocks I was going to get one!

"No food in the shop!" Mr Ollivander hissed at me.

I stuffed the last of the pasty into my mouth and, being temporarily unable to speak, gestured in a Malfoyish way at the towering shelves of boxed wands.

"You're after a wand?" He peered at me.

"Mmm!" I nodded, chewing vigorously. Why else would I be in a wand shop? I managed to swallow, the rather too large lump of food sliding painfully down my gullet. "Been using my dad's," I husked, "But I want one of my own."

I'd found, during my shopping trip, that people were having difficulty understanding me - must be the return of my midlands accent - and it was best if I kept to short sentences and tried very hard to enunciate properly.

This was harder than you'd think. Ollivander just kept blinking at me enquiringly.

"Wand!" I said carefully and a bit louder than I'd expected. Ah, there was a nice, cushy chair for me to sit on.

The dim lighting in Ollivander's was soothing, and I thought I'd just rest my eyes.

Irritatingly, Mr Ollivander kept nudging me and putting wands into my hand. I waved them languidly, swish and flick, swish and flick.

Mr Ollivander didn't appear to be enjoying this relaxing pastime, instead, he grew more and more squeaky and jumpy, the longer we continued. I beamed at him, trying to keep his spirits up. Poor little fellow, cooped up in this little shop that smelled of - rosewood?

I brought the wand up to my nose and had a good sniff - definitely rosewood. For some reason, I gave it a lick, and it tasted good - warm and welcoming. Mr Ollivander was squeaking rather more than usual, but I ignored him - feeling something I'd never felt before. The warmth of the wand flowed across my palate, and down my throat, at the same time as heat washed up through my fingers and rushed towards my belly.

I gave the wand a shake, as a bird does to settle its feathers after bathing in a puddle, and that heat burst through me in a rush of power and flames and fire - orgasmic! (Luckily my winter-weight longjohns had a knitted-in cleansing charm).

I laughed, happiness beyond measure, joy and utter delight filling me up.

Mr Ollivander was frantically putting out fires and casting containment shields at me and his stock, but I barely noticed. I swished and flicked and transformed Mr Ollivander's tapemeasure into a handsome grapevine, with the greatest of ease.

"I'll take this one," I said, enthusiastically. "How much?"

"Yes yes, that's the one," visibly agitated, Mr Ollivander scuttled behind his counter and seemed to me to be taking deep breaths.

I heaved myself to my feet, stamped his parchment with my Longbottom signet, and availed myself of his floo.

"Longbottom Home Farm!"

(((((((())))))))

The floo journey was surprisingly disorientating and painful, as I was scraped against sooty bricks and rattled against grates, and finally spat out onto Gran's hearthrug. And was spectacularly sick all over old Gladys Blight's pointy toed pumps.

"Neville!" Gran's shriek cracked the mirror over the fireplace, which showered me and my vomit in little glittering shards.

My rosy glow had left with the contents of my stomach.

Ah.


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

The trouble with being banished to the far reaches of the Longbottom ancestral holdings, to "keep away, stay away and don't come back until you've learned some respect for the family name", was that there was far too much time to _think._

(((((((())))))))

To avoid this uncomfortable situation, I made myself useful by doing pointless tasks - repairing walls, _incendio_ing noxious weeds, making a general nuisance of myself among the lambing ewes (who certainly didn't need me blundering about), and replenishing the boundary wards.

This last was a Longbottom tradition - a bit of family blood, sweat or spit wiped onto the ward stones as you passed them on your way here and there, kept the network from crumbling. Great Uncle Algy had once told me that during the Grindelwald War my great great grandfather and his sons had gone round the boundary and wanked on the ward stones to give them a boost. "Real essence of the family, haw haw haw!" he'd snorted, then eyed me up and down and remarked that I probably had too much of my mother's blood to be much use.

Out here, on my own, I'd done a bit of experimenting the first couple of times I'd come up against the ward stones. It was the sort of magic that you didn't need to recall obscure words for or wave your arms around in bizarre configurations - this was all about intent.

I kicked a few decades worth of leaf-mould off the ward stone that lay deep in a heavily wooded valley. To the east I could feel the thrum of the newly re-powered ward stone I'd found the day before, connecting up to this one. Awkwardly, I lowered myself into an ungainly squat and brushed a few creepy crawlies off the ward stone. With my palm against its weathered surface I could sense a faint trace of the boundary ward arcing over to the south-west.

Uncle Algy had been right, spit, sweat and blood in small quantities were all okay for day-to-day maintenance, but it had been a long time since anyone had done a circuit, maybe not since my dad had been a lad. Wanking was the way to go.

I wasn't worried about not being enough of a Longbottom. If anything I was worried that the fungus might have got into my balls and that I may inadvertently be creating a sanctuary for mushrooms instead of protecting the home territory from Muggle hikers and hot-air balloons, and of course averting the occasional dark wizard.

I let myself relax into awareness of my surroundings. Behind me, under me, all around me I could feel the burgeoning earth. The chill and crackle of spring frost mixed with the excitement of sap rising, sprouts unfurling, randy little animals twitching their tails, birds building nests. And beyond this, hundreds of years of Longbottom family investment in these hills and valleys, safe and protected, hidden away like a secret kingdom.

"Turn away all with ill intent," I murmured and spilled my own essence onto the thirsty stone. Even through the aftershock of my orgasm I felt the south-west ward snap into place, a wide wall of magic that stretched deep beneath the earth and arched overhead. Crazy love-struck birds swooped to-and-fro, squirrels raced around, and over to my left a pair of rabbits were busy making babies. Some of the brambles had burst into blossom and were being eaten thoughtfully by a feral goat.

On the ward stone the deer's antler rune blazed in its three weathered cuts. I hadn't been surprised when Harry Potter's patronus had been a deer - it was the old symbol for protection after all.

(((((((())))))))

I wasn't sure if it had been the technicolour vomit on Gran's hearthrug, the special edition of the Daily Prophet featuring me trying to do the highland fling on the mahogany bar in the Leaky Cauldron while wearing a Muggle please man's helmet, or the fact that there'd been some sort of dangerous magical overload in Diagon Alley that could have seriously injured me. Anyway, Gran was seriously vexed.

It was just as well that she didn't know I'd gone and got myself a new wand, as well as the rest of my shopping spree! I wasn't sure myself why I'd bought an umbrella stand made out of genuine erumptunt leather, though it looked very handsome when I'd resized it and hidden it away in the attics.

(((((((())))))))

It was a fair hike to the next ward stone, most of it uphill and involving clambering over at least a hundred enormous fallen trees. Alright, maybe three.

Everywhere I looked creatures were rutting, seeds were sprouting, blossoms blooming. It was so intensely irritating that I was tempted to start practicing my wandless _incendios_ again. That bloody pair of bluebirds would look better with some singed tailfeathers…

I hadn't quite got used to my new wand - the first time I tried out an incendio on a smoking red howler from Hermione I'd blasted a wall of fire straight through the east orchard and burned down a rather nice Madagascan baobab.

"Oy Neville!" The shout came from above me, and I looked up just in time to nearly incinerate one of the Weasley twins descending rapidly on broomstick. His double followed, and the two of them hovered at eye height, grinning like idiots.

I scowled at them, "What do _you_ want?"

"Your Gran said you were out here -"

"Somewhere! We've had to do _point me_ -"

"About a million times. She seemed -"

"Really narked But we saw you -"

"Dancing in the Leaky Cauldron and we thought -"

"You looked like you were having a _brilliant_ time and-"

"You're on the front page of the Prophet again!"

They dismounted simultaneously, which meant I could scowl down at them satisfactorily (being a whole head taller than them). And then they presented me, with full flourishes and bows, with this morning's Daily Prophet.

_**Longbottom heir under investigation by Ministry!**_

It was only the thing with the filing demon again, jazzed up with speculation on whether the Longbottom family was afflicted by a curse (me).

However, there were a few interviews with my former Hogwarts classmates, all anonymous of course:

_"Neville Longbottom? I'm not surprised, he was rubbish at anything except mucking around with compost," commented one source._

_A close friend of Mr Longbottom confessed: "I was forced to tutor him during Potions but even that didn't stop him from being a complete disaster. Not all Hogwarts students are like Neville, some of us are highly accomplished and competent!"_

_"Neville Longbottom? I shared a dorm with him for six years so yeah, I'd say I know him pretty well. Talents? Um, I'd have to say - none!"_

_"Neville Longbottom? Oh you mean that fat kid. I think he had a toad for a familiar - well that just goes to show you!"_

(((((((())))))))

The Weasley twins were quite impressed with my wandless _incendio_.

(((((((())))))))

They were also quite impressed by the south-east ward.

While we were having a nice cup of tea (brewed by me - there's no way I'd let either of them prepare food), an owl approached from the east bearing a howler, and… bounced. It tried several times, before deciding that bruises were unbecoming to an owl of its featherage, and winging away.

"Effective, that!" Fred commented, eyes wide.

"Mm. I don't know how _you_ two got through." The tea was good, though a sprinkling of cayenne pepper would be piquant.

"Oh, we came to cheer you up, not tell you off."

"Ronniekins has been such a berk lately-"

"More like Percy every day. So naturally -"

"We believe the complete opposite of whatever he says." They smirked at me.

I sighed and snapped my fingers, "Grubby". One of the house elves popped onto the hillside, looking nervous to be out of doors. "Some sandwiches, and quickly, I'm feeling peckish. Make mine anchovies and grapefruit. And bring some cushions, this ground's damp."

"Yessir!" House elves, the wizard's solution to the inconveniences of hiking.

(((((((())))))))

The advent of sangers, ginger beer and cake (we Longbottoms like our house elves to use their initiative), went some way to lifting my black mood.

The Weasley twins told me a bit about the chaos Diagon Alley was in, apparently a magical shockwave had decimated their own stock of tricks and they were having to remedially apply charms and hexes before reopening. Almost every business was affected, and the Muggles were convinced that a major gas explosion had occurred in the area.

"I must have just missed it," I said despondently, "Nothing interesting ever happens to me."

"Oh come now," a twin said, reclining on the cushions and eyeing a male grouse who was going practically spare trying to impress a coy grouse hen. "You got rid of Snape, that's pretty interesting."

"Yeah, we heard he got out of St Mungos and is taking a rest cure on the continent."

"Won't be back for a decade or more."

"Angelina Johnson was in with a quiddich injury and saw him checking out -"

"She said that he looked tons better but still like he'd had one too many calming potions."

I stuffed a sandwich in my mouth so as to avoid commenting. My thoughts raced!

(((((((())))))))

_**The smell hex may not have entirely ruined his life!**_

_**He's not even in England! It's safe!**_

_**If he's sane, do I need to tell him about the Snape-fungus hybrid? Does he have a parental obligation to raise and nurture it?**_

(((((((())))))))

A vision of Professor Snape cooing sentimentally to a toadstool caused me to almost choke on my anchovy and grapefruit sandwich.

Fred Weasley thumped me solicitiously on the back, stroking my hair, while George murmured soothing things.

I swallowed the last of my sandwich, hoped it wouldn't taste too strange to Fred, and snogged him.

"About time!" George said, and snuggled up for his turn.

(((((((())))))))

"Send us a booty owl!"

"Any time Neville!"

Their voices floated down to me as they headed back towards the home farm.

All in all, the Weasley twins really did cheer me up.


End file.
